


Safe as houses

by myhappyface



Category: The Cave (2005)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-26
Updated: 2012-05-25
Packaged: 2017-11-06 00:53:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myhappyface/pseuds/myhappyface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vomit on the bathroom floor is not ambience, it is vomit: and other stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. we don't stay gone

**Author's Note:**

> So, okay. [This is Top](http://i48.tinypic.com/2yy8nj9.png). [This is Jack](http://i45.tinypic.com/2zrhylh.png). I [think that they are doing it](http://i50.tinypic.com/15nmzrl.png). (They are doing it in a movie called _The Cave_ , which came out in 2005, but that is essentially irrelevant to this story, which is your basic bar sex angst set-up.)

Top sets their beers down on the small, sticky table. It wobbles a little under the staggering weight of two glass bottles. Jesus.

"When are you going to stop dragging me to this shit hole, Jack, I thought we were friends."

"Hey, listen, this place has history, it has _character_ \--"

"-- vomit on the bathroom floor is not ambience; it is _vomit_ \--"

"-- and I'm buyin', so shut up and drink your beer."

Jack takes his sweet time, nursing the drink with wounded dignity. Top sighs. One day he'll get Jack out of this dive and into a bar where they're not likely to get mugged on the way out, but until then, he seems doomed to a fate of sticky elbows. At least they serve Corona.

If he's being honest with himself, though, he doesn't exactly mind watching Jack's mouth around the bottle. He's pretty discreet about watching, but the way Jack's throat works as he swallows, eyes closed, long fingers tan against the clear glass -- suddenly it's too hot, it's too close in the shitty little bar, and Top sets his bottle down with a _thump_ (and a corresponding wobble from the table), says something about needing some air he himself doesn't really hear, and walks out.

Outside, he leans against the brick wall, letting the cool evening air calm him down, push him back from the edge that had suddenly appeared. Whatever he's been feeling for Jack these past couple of months has never presented itself so insistently, always, before, a background hum accompanying whatever he did. To watch his best - only - friend drinking his beer and realize that he was fantasizing about that mouth in other places, about threading his fingers through Jack's hair and pushing him down, about finding his way _in_ \-- and the air isn't so cool anymore, and he isn't so alone anymore. Jack's voice cuts through the fog in his head.

"What the hell, bud, what are you doing?" 

He doesn't know what his face looks like in that moment, but something in it freezes Jack up and then draws him in, makes him reach out to clasp a hand on Top's shoulder. 

"Hey, what's the matter? Sick?"

Top shakes off Jack's hand. "I'm callin' it a night, I'll see you tom--", but Jack dogs him, pushes him back against the wall. Top's arms hang uselessly at his side and he finally meets Jack's eyes. Standing there in silence, he can actually _see_ exactly when Jack gets what's going on, sees his eyes widen and his nostrils flare, and this is what he was worried about, because it's not like _he_ knows what the fuck he's doing, so why should Jack?

But maybe Jack knows more about this than he thinks, because he's not backing off, he's getting closer. Forget about the whites of his eyes; he's close enough for Top to _smell_. 

When Jack finally speaks, his voice is rough. "If you're gonna stop me, do it now." All the signs are there, but Top still doesn't understand, he doesn't get it, not until Jack's mouth is on his, body pressing against him with unexpected need. Fear, maybe. He's not the only one. Jack's mouth is cool against his, and he can feel a hint of teeth.

He gets with the program, he loosens up: he brings his hands to rest on Jack's waist, clutching his hips, and when Jack pulls back, he can see that it _was_ fear, writ large over him, his breath coming too fast. Top takes a second to breathe, or maybe it's longer, maybe he takes a whole minute, too long, because Jack starts to look well and truly _freaked_ , so before keeping hold of him becomes a struggle, Top yanks him back in for a second try.

This one's better. This time he puts his hand on Jack's neck, thumb resting over his rapid pulse, gets him up close and personal, presses his tongue forward and moans a little when Jack parts his lips. He tastes like the cheap beer from the bar, the stale gum he's been chewing all night. He tastes like the cigarette Top always swears is his last.

A muted burst of noise from the bar breaks them apart. Last call. Jack looks at Top and licks his lips.

"The other reason I like that place," he says slowly, "is because it's only five minutes from my apartment."

*

It's a short walk, but with Jack a silent presence at his side, it's long enough for Top to start thinking about what he's doing. What he's about to do.

Jack stops walking, and Top is almost surprised to see that they've arrived. Jack fiddles with his keys a second before opening the door and stepping inside, turning on his heel to face Top.

"You comin'?"

The first step is the hardest: his legs are clumsy, heavy things, carved out of stone. He feels like he's drowning. The second step is easier, and the third easier still, and he shuts the door behind him almost as an afterthought, shedding his coat as he kicks it closed. He walks Jack backward, pushed on by his own momentum, until he has Jack up against the wall, until he has his hand on Jack's hip, under his shirt. 

Top takes a breath and kisses him, working his tongue into Jack's mouth. Jack leans into it, hand resting on the back of Top's neck, and opens up easy, pulling Top's lip into his mouth and caressing it with his own. Top grips his hips tighter, nails digging into flesh, and realizes that Jack's bedroom is less than ten feet away, and all the air in the room disappears, and he can't _breathe_ , all he can do is try to get closer, to crawl inside Jack and just _stay_. He sucks Jack's tongue into his mouth with desperation, teeth clashing.

Gradually, Top becomes aware of an insistent pressure on his chest and is startled to realize that it's Jack's hand pushing him back, and all he can think is _don't stop me_ and _please_ , but Jack maneuvers out from between him and the wall, taking hold of Top's shirt to pull him into the bedroom.

Oh. _Oh._ He is down with this plan. He is so down.

In the bedroom, he takes matters of disrobing into his own hands and tugs Jack's shirt over his head, running a hand down the long line of his back, pulling him in for another kiss.

A few minutes later, Jack jerks back, pupils blown wide and breath coming faster, to yank Top's shirt off, to push him onto the bed. He climbs over him, crawling up Top's body until they're face to face, laying himself down and tucking his head into the curve of Top's neck. He runs his tongue down the strong tendon in Top's neck and then is perfectly still, huffing short, maddening breaths on the sensitive skin under his mouth, raising gooseflesh as Top tries to keep it together beneath him.

To even the playing field, Top slips a hand between them and begins toying with the button on Jack's jeans, thumb running in circles over it as his other fingers tuck themselves under the waistband. Jack's breath catches, hard, and that's when Top realizes he's not walking away from this, that he can't, and rolls Jack beneath him, wedging his leg between Jack's thighs and grinding down, down, taking Jack's mouth with his and _inhaling_ him, sliding his arms under Jack to pull him closer.

Jack's hands - at all other times certain and sure - fumble at Top's fly, pushing his pants down as Top manages Jack's a little easier until they're both down to their briefs, and then they're skin on skin, and Top reaches down to grasp Jack's cock, keeping his touch light, barely there, until Jack groans in frustration and thrusts up into Top's hand, legs splayed open around Top's waist. Top runs his thumb roughly along the underside of Jack's cock and takes mercy, gripping his hand tighter. Jack's hips move raggedly, stuttering; Top bites his collarbone and Jack comes apart, head thrown back, neck bare.

Top moans, bracing himself on his elbows as he drops his head down, rubbing himself against the crease of Jack's thigh. He opens his eyes briefly, long enough to see Jack lick a wide swathe down his palm and reach for his cock. Jack stretches up to kiss him, teeth sharp on Top's mouth, and his slick grip twists the orgasm out of him.

Top stays where he is, motionless above Jack, until his arms give protest. He tips over to the side, falling on his back, catching his breath. He turns his eyes to look at Jack, equally destroyed, equally wiped out, staring at the ceiling. When he feels the weight of Top's stare, Jack meets his gaze and, after a moment, says, "Let's deal with this in the morning, I'm trashed."

Well, then. All right.

*

He wakes up in the morning with his face shoved deep into a pillow. His right arm is tucked under his chest, filling with pins and needles as the blood rushes back in, and his left is flung out over Jack's waist, hand on Jack's stomach. For a moment, he stays still, eyes closed, feeling the rhythm of Jack's shallow breathing, steady and slow. The calm before.

Check-in: dry mouth, sticky, no pants. He'd played sports in college; he's been naked with other men before. Just not naked with intent, or in the aftermath of that intent. He had sex with a man last night. He had sex with _Jack_ , and he hadn't been shitfaced enough to blame it on alcohol. Even if he had been drunk, he couldn't have blamed what he did on that, not and kept a clean conscience. What he feels for Jack, the desire, the thing he's not ready to name, that isn't new.

Jack stirs, and Top fights the urge to feign sleep. He is a grown man, damn it. He is not _nervous_ , and depending on what Jack says next, he regrets very little of what happened last night. Mostly, he regrets being in that bar for any length of time.

Jack's hand comes up to cover his own, briefly, and then he rolls out of bed, grabbing a pair of sweats off the floor. Top's hand falls on the empty bed.

"I'm making breakfast, you want anything?" He leaves the room before Top answers.

Maybe he's a little goddamn nervous.

*

After attaining some semblance of composure - the first step of which was finding his pants - Top follows Jack out of the room, walking hesitantly into the kitchen. Jack is busying himself in front of the stove, beating eggs for scrambling, and doesn't indicate an interest either way in Top's presence. Top leans uneasily against the kitchen island, trying to find something to say.

Jack doles out the eggs onto two plates and carries them to the table. Once he sits, he finally looks at Top, meets his eyes. "Are you gonna stand there all day or are you gonna eat?"

He's gonna get whiplash, is what he's gonna do. He sits anyway, and picks up the fork to have something to do with his hands that isn't reaching out for what might not be within his grasp. They eat in silence nowhere near companionable. 

Jack carries their empty dishes to the sink and runs some water over them, splashes some on his face. He braces himself on the counter and leans forward, the only visible sign of stress he's shown. Top thinks suddenly of Jack's trembling hands last night, the way they had shook as they had undone his pants. Jack is a solid man, through and through, the most dependable person Top has ever known; you could build a house on him. If what they've done changes that, he's not so sure he wants it.

Jack lets out a deep breath and turns to face him, crossing his arms over his chest. His blue eyes are almost translucent in the morning light.

"Here's the thing," Jack says. "I want that to happen again."

Top can feel his eyes widen. He tries to stop himself from smiling, but he's not very successful. He can feel that, too, and he can see it reflected back at him in Jack's face, in the way his mouth tugs up at the corner, that fish-hook smile that makes Top kind of crazy. Jack pushes off the sink and walks back over to the table.

"So, uh," Top starts, standing, "if I did this --" and kisses Jack, soft and chaste, and when he pulls away, Jack's eyes are still sweetly closed, "-- that would be okay?"

"Yeah," Jack says, and clears his throat. "Yeah, that'd be just fine."


	2. can't stay together, can't be alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyler gets the update.

The day he finds out isn't the worst day of his life. He has, in the past, in the abstract, figured it might be, but it wasn't something he had given a lot of thought. That just wasn't really how Tyler spent his time.

Tyler always thought Jack was the model of what a big brother should be. When they were kids, Jack may have knocked around his geeky little brother, who hadn't grown into his height or his weight yet, but he didn't let anybody else do it, and when it was time for Tyler to go to college, Jack's odd jobs and start-up spelunking business footed the brunt of his tuition.

Sure, Jack has a temper, but it runs in the family, and it blows hot and quick. Unless it's about safety in the field, arguments are over when they're over, without fail. That Jack doesn't carry a grudge is one of his finer qualities, in Tyler's opinion.

So Jack being -- what he is, okay, not the worst thing, but still unexpected. In the past, he had always -- well, so far as Tyler knew, anyway. Which wasn't all that far, apparently.

How he finds out is like this: he walks into Jack's place unannounced one morning, hungover and too tired to get back to his apartment. Jack gave him the key as soon as he got situated; it's not like he's ever needed to knock. One way or another, they had been bunking together for Tyler's whole life, minus those four years he was away: they had shared a room for ten years when they were little, and quarters on the ship were tighter than that, so Jack couldn't be doing anything Tyler hadn't seen before.

Or so he had thought while opening Jack's door, hand to his head, afraid that raising his voice might _shatter_ his head, the door's closing _thump_ behind him almost loud enough to do the trick. Jack is in the kitchen, standing before the stove in sweatpants, scrambling eggs. Tyler feels his stomach roll and turns to the side, which is when he sees Top, wearing a ratty pair of boxers and nothing else, emerging from Jack's bedroom instead of the spare. There are a lot of reasons he could have been in there, and Tyler could think of them if his head would only stop _throbbing_ , but Top crosses to the kitchen and rests his hand on Jack's lower back, and Jack doesn't react at all, and it's the familiarity of the gesture that lets him suddenly _see_ , and he's so surprised he lets out this soft _oh_ and they both turn to look at him and Jack flushes, maybe the first time Tyler's seen him surprised or embarrassed in years, but he doesn't step away from Top's hand, and that's how Tyler knows that this is for real, because Tyler's met Jack's girlfriends before, and they were always short and blond and cute, or short and brunette and cute, but Jack was never what you'd call touchy-feely with them, not like this, and now here he is with some _guy_ , behaving unfamiliarly. Letting himself be touched in such a possessive way. Making breakfast in the morning in his pajamas and sitting down to eat together.

"Ty," Jack says, and pauses, then says, "Where's the cat that dragged you in?" and, "Sit down before you fall down," and other things that make Tyler think _home_.

He grabs a chair next to Top and says, "Make me some goddamn toast," and Jack says, "Where's your goddamn manners," and Tyler says, "Make me some goddamn toast, _please_ , you asshole, what kind of brother are you," and puts his head on the cool Formica table and listens to his brother rattle around the kitchen. Top drops a wet paper towel on the back of his neck. It feels so good he could cry.

Jack eats leaning against the counter, watching him steadily for signs of fight or freak-out, and gives up after ten minutes, rolling his eyes and going into the next room for a shower. Tyler lifts his head, looks at Top, and asks, "So, how long have you and my brother been --"

Top interrupts, possibly because he doesn't want to know what verb Tyler's going to supply. "Seven months."

It's somehow longer than he expects, and it must show on his face, because Top adds, "About a month ago, he started making noises about telling you. Just been killing time since then, trying to figure out how. You know you're all he's got."

"Not anymore," Tyler says, and smiles a little. "Now he's got you."

"Now he's got me," Top agrees, and pushes the toast toward him. Tyler puts his head back on the table. Top snickers.


End file.
